


call it any name you need

by raumdeuter



Category: Drutex "Fenster für Champions" commercial (2014), Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter
Summary: The guy standing underneath his window isn’t a kid, but he is vaguely familiar, in the sense that Philipp’s seen him walking his dog or checking the mailbox a few times before. His name is--it starts with a B, doesn’t it? It’s something Philipp doesn’t want to risk mispronouncing. He might live a couple of doors down; Philipp isn’t really sure.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Imkerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/gifts).



Philipp is just about to get started on the grading when the football sails through the window.

It takes him a moment before he realizes he must have left it out on the curb. As he watches, it bounces once, sails over the sofa, and rolls off down the hall and out of sight. Some of the neighborhood kids screwing around, he thinks, and heads over to the window to close it.

The guy standing underneath his window isn’t a kid, but he _is_ vaguely familiar, in the sense that Philipp’s seen him walking his dog or checking the mailbox a few times before. His name is--it starts with a B, doesn’t it? It’s something Philipp doesn’t want to risk mispronouncing. He might live a couple of doors down; Philipp isn’t really sure.

B-something touches two figures to his head in a mock salute, grinning up at Philipp. His eyes crinkle up at the edges; he’s handsome to begin with, in a rough, stubbled kind of way, and the smile only makes him handsomer, and Philipp finds himself grinning back.

 

\---

 

“Sorry about the mess,” Philipp says as he closes the door. Not that there is a mess, really, but he hasn’t had a chance to tidy up in weeks, and it’s been longer than that since someone last came over. Besides the rest of the team, anyway, and they don’t really count. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea, if you have it,” says the not-really-stranger, whose name is Kuba, which definitely wasn’t the name on the mailbox. “Do you have a habit of inviting all your neighbors in, or what?”

He’s still smiling a little as he says it, though, so Philipp figures he’s probably okay. “Only the ones who give me an excuse to avoid grading,” he says. There’s just enough hot water left in the kettle for two mugs; he drops a teabag into both and steers Kuba into the living room.

“Grading what?” Kuba stares interestedly at the stacks of finals covering the coffee table, but Philipp hurriedly sets down the mugs and sweeps them away before he can get a good look.

It’s always a little awkward telling people what he does--you never really know how someone’s going to react, and there are a lot of people who think it’s a waste of time. Philipp takes a long sip from his mug, suddenly wishing there were something stronger in it, before he says, “I’m, ah, a postdoc. At the university.”

He knows he’s screwed up as soon as Kuba lights up. “So am I. What department are you in?”

“No,” says Philipp, cursing himself mentally. “I mean, well, the other university.”

“Oh,” says Kuba, automatically, before his eyes widen and Philipp’s heart sinks. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah,” says Philipp, and braces for the inevitable, carefully worded comments that usually follow. He’s heard them all before. But Kuba doesn’t say anything like that; he only nods, thoughtfully, and sips at his own mug.

After a moment Kuba says, “What do you study?”

“Administration,” says Philipp. “My advisor’s pretty fond of the subject, and I took a liking to it in undergrad. You? I mean, at--the other--the other university.”

“Philosophy,” says Kuba. He doesn’t sound particularly apologetic about it, either, the way some people do when they’re expecting to get ribbed about their field of study. Philipp doesn’t say anything, either--it’d seem awfully hypocritical, considering.

He’s reaching out to refill Kuba’s mug when the thought strikes him. “Hang on,” he says, slowly. “Did you _kick_ that ball through my window?”

He can see Kuba hesitate--for an instant he thinks he’s going to say no--but to Philipp’s delight he shrugs a little, curling his broad fingers back around the steaming mug. “I might’ve,” he says wryly. “Did I pass, Dr. Lahm?”

“Do you play?” says Philipp, resisting the urge to lean forward. He’s trying not to sound too excited--Dr. Pirlo’s told him how he can get when he’s excited--but this could be big. “What position? Because our striker moved to Wolfsburg last week, and we’ve had a hell of a time trying to find another one--”

“Winger, mostly,” says Kuba. “I’m not as happy up front. You may be out of luck.”

“No, no, we can work with that! Thomas has been complaining about playing on the wing anyway--we can move him up, fit you in.” He adds, a little self-consciously, “That is, if you think you’d be interested. It’s only five-a-side, and it’s not--there’s a league, but it’s not official. We’re trying to make it official but the practice field keeps getting booked.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Kuba. “So is this for credit, or is this an extracurricular thing?”

Philipp almost opens his mouth to respond, but Kuba’s smiling again, and the soft wrinkling of his features does something weird and unexpected to Philipp’s chest.

“I’m kidding,” says Kuba, and leans forward. “Let me give you my number.”

 

\---

 

Philipp doesn’t _forget_ about Kuba for the rest of the week, because the weekly five-a-side is never really far from his mind, but there are other things that take up his attention. The mountain of reading he has to do for his Advanced Mind Games class, for one. His own thesis, for another. And on Wednesday one of the freshmen taking Pirlo’s Intro to Tactics class bursts into tears during his office hours, and while Philipp eventually manages to sort it all out, that’s still an entire afternoon wasted.

So he’s not really thinking about Kuba coming to the game as much as he is just looking forward to putting his boots on and running his heart out. As much as he loves his field of study, even he has to admit that sometimes it’s nice to turn his brain off and just play.

Sunday afternoon arrives with grey skies and a light drizzle. There are already two teams playing when Philipp gets to the pitch, and neither of them are his. But he spots Thomas standing on the sidelines, a battered sports bag slung over one skinny shoulder, and heads over to see what’s going on.

“Fake Madrid again,” says Thomas, staring disgustedly out at the pitch. “And Unatletico. I swear to god they find out where we’re going to play every week just so they can book the field ahead of us.”

“They shouldn’t have had it this week,” says Philipp, frowning. “I booked the field myself.”

“Well, they must’ve unbooked you. Or the parks office burned down. Or they paid old Sepp off, the bastards.” That last possibility is highly unlikely, given that virtually nobody likes the organizer of the Sunday league, but Thomas’s usually good-natured face looks so stormy that Philipp almost takes a step forward in case he tries to start something. “Well, boss. Where are we headed?”

Philipp sighs. “The pitch next to the gymnasium is shit, but it’s better than nothing. Who are we playing again?”

“Passion of the Cruyff, looks like.”

Finally, some good news today. “At least the Father will be late, if he’s coming from Mass,” Philipp says, and pulls out his phone to text their opponents. Between the trip across town and what he’s charitably going to call a paperwork mix-up with the park (it’s the eleventh time it’s happened--not that he keeps track, or anything), he completely forgets to update Kuba until Manu and Lewy show up and he’s forcibly reminded about their lack of a fifth man.

“We could see if Javi’s free,” offers Manu, but everyone knows that’s a lost cause. Javi hasn’t been free on Sundays since he started working for a local nonprofit. Everyone feels vaguely guilty about it, but they’ve organized enough charity matches and tournaments over the last few months that Philipp figures the team’s probably still okay as far as karma is concerned.

Anyway, even as Manu says it, Philipp spots Father Miro’s beat-up Audi pulling into the parking lot, and a moment later, to Philipp’s surprise, Kuba climbs out of the passenger side seat.

“You came after all,” Philipp calls, as the two of them make their way toward the pitch. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you earlier.”

“I wasn’t going to,” says Kuba, straight-faced, “but after Mass the Father found out you’d tried to recruit me, and I haven’t heard the end of it since.”

“It’s hardly fair if you drop points just because you’re missing a man,” says Father Miro drily. “I’d rather beat you fair and square.”

The rest of his team arrives soon after that, a loud, cheerful rabble of mostly-Poles who make four people sound like ten. Thomas loses the coin toss with Lewy for striker and shuffles over to take left wing, complaining loudly all the while, and as Kuba takes his place on the right, he catches Philipp’s eye and mock-grimaces. They kick off fifteen minutes late, which is better than Philipp expected, all things considered, and then there’s nothing left to consider: only the game.

Kuba--well, Kuba is _good_. There’s not much more Philipp can say about it. He rattles the crossbar at distance right at the start, and from then on their opponents have their hands full trying to contain him, which gives Thomas the freedom to drop back and move around, just the way he likes. By halftime they’re already 2-0 up; their opponents score ten minutes into the second half, and Father Miro pulls even with one of his trademark headers, which Philipp is powerless to stop, but Kuba drills a low shot into the net a minute before the final whistle, and that’s that.

Afterwards, one of the Poles--Szczesny, thinks Philipp, the keeper--pops open the trunk of his car and pulls out a crate of beer, and slowly the two teams drift together. Father Miro’s team has been here since the start of the league, pretty much, and everyone likes him, and even if they didn’t, they probably like free beer.

“Go on,” says Philipp, as Lewy stares longingly at the crate. “I won’t tell. None of us will.”

“She’ll know,” says Lewy mournfully. “She always does.”

Kuba wanders up then, and Philipp waves him over, abandoning Lewy to his internal struggle.

“That was a hell of a goal,” says Philipp. “Trying to pull a fast one on me, huh? Are you sure you’re not a pro?”

“Speak for yourself,” says Kuba. “Where did you learn to tackle like that?”

“I was in the youth academy here for a while. It didn’t really work out.” He doesn’t say: Well, it had, but the crushing weight of reality set in sometime around my fifteenth birthday and I thought an administrative position would be a more effective use of my time. Aloud he says, “And I prefer being an amateur, anyway. It’s not the most organized league in the city, but I like to think we make up for it with skill. I mean, I’m working on the organization, too; the permits alone are--”

Kuba huffs out a laugh. “You don’t have to sell me on it. I had a good time.”

And he really does look like it, Philipp thinks. Kuba hadn’t been particularly talkative during the game, but he knows as well as anyone that that doesn’t mean anything. He’d thrown himself into the game headfirst, and there had been a certain relaxing of his posture when he ran, like the release of a tension Philipp hadn’t known was there.

“Well,” says Philipp, feeling the ridiculous urge to duck his head, like a kid. “You can come back anytime, as long as you keep scoring goals like those.”

For a moment they stand there together, watching the lights in the parking lot come on, one by one.

“So,” says Kuba. “FC Bayern Munchausen?”

“It was Thomas’s idea,” says Philipp. “He’s a surgeon.”

“What,” says Kuba, slowly, and then, “No,” and at the look on his face, Philipp laughs so hard he almost drops his beer.

 

\---

 

The next day something bounces off Philipp’s window, which is closed this time against the cold, and when he goes to open it he finds Kuba standing there again, eyes sparkling up at him over the edge of a black and yellow scarf.

“Oh, _no,_ ” he mouths down at him through the window, and Kuba’s eyes crinkle upward.

 

\---

 

They beat Unatletico that week, and the week after that they tie with 24 Hour Vardy People--

“--which is enough to put us into the semifinals if Fake Madrid beat Vardy next week,” says Philipp, drawing a line across his fridge whiteboard. “But if they tie, or we lose against--” he pauses, staring at the whiteboard, “Mean Gaals--”

“Then we could still advance on goal differential,” says Kuba. “Relax.”

Philipp scowls up at him. Kuba just raises his eyebrows.

He’s been coming over after every match now, and sometimes during the week, too. It’s turned into something like a game: Philipp makes sure his driveway and the surrounding curb are spotless, and Kuba still manages to find an empty water bottle or a crumpled bit of aluminum foil to kick at his window.

He doesn’t say much, usually, but he doesn’t need to; sometimes he brings his own grading, and they work in comfortable silence until the tea runs out or one of them realizes how late it’s gotten. Philipp isn’t stupid enough to mistake Kuba’s quiet for simplicity, but there’s a simplicity to the evening nevertheless: it’s something he doesn’t have to analyze, or plan around.

In a way, he thinks, it’s a little like a five-a-side game.

Or it’s supposed to be, anyway. Right now Kuba is still matching him, stare for stare, and all of Philipp’s carefully laid-out arguments about how they could still miss the playoff stages are starting to unravel.

“That isn’t set in stone,” he says, irritably. “We’d only be two goals ahead of the team in fifth place, and any low-scoring game is certain to knock us out.”

“It only seems complicated to you because you’re making it complicated.”

“It _is_ complicated! There are a dozen possibilities--”

“There’s only one possibility,” says Kuba, “and it’s that we play our asses off and win.”

Philipp sighs and turns back to stare at the whiteboard. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Suddenly Kuba is standing behind him, pressing almost flush against Philipp’s back. Philipp doesn’t dare move; he can feel the rise and fall of Kuba’s chest as he breathes, and his nose is full of Kuba’s cologne: not overwhelming, but stronger than he’d expected.

“Have a little faith,” says Kuba easily, and reaches over Philipp’s shoulder to wipe the whiteboard clean. “We’ll make it.” And then he steps back and leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms in a way that makes Philipp uncomfortably aware of how snugly his sweater fits him.

“Yeah,” says Philipp. His voice sounds strange in his own ears, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, maybe.”

Kuba grins at him. He’s still wearing his horrible Dortmund scarf, probably because he knows it annoys Philipp, but for once Philipp can’t bring himself to care, which is in itself probably a sign…

And for the second time in as many weeks, Philipp thinks: _Oh, no._

 

\---

 

Four days later they win 5-3, and Kuba kisses him.

They’re sitting in Philipp’s car, flushed and red-faced from the cold and from the match: a brace from Kuba, one apiece from Thomas and Lewy, and a late-minute stunner from Philipp that he’s still reeling a little from. Maybe--maybe it’s different, if you’re a forward; maybe all your goals start blending together after a while, but he can still count on the fingers of one hand the number of long-ranged strikes he’s scored, and this one fills him up and warms him from the inside out.

Kuba’s still talking about it animatedly as he reaches back for his seatbelt with one hand, describing the arc of the ball with the other. He doesn’t often see Kuba like this, Philipp thinks; he’s always ready for a laugh, and he has a wicked sense of humor, but it’s only around when they’re near the pitch that his shoulders lose their stiffness, and he lets more of himself spill out.

Then again, it might be the glühwein, too. But before he can say anything, Kuba reaches out, and cups his face in one hand, and kisses him.

There’s a logical part of Philipp’s brain that never quite turns off that expected this: that sorted each individual meeting and match into neat little rows and connected all of them with bits of string, then stepped back and looked at the big picture and decided all of these singular events were headed toward one inevitable conclusion, and that he should be utterly unsurprised. But when Kuba kisses him, it shuts down entirely, and for one terrifying moment Philipp doesn’t know what to do with himself.

But Kuba’s lips are hot against his, and his hand is warm and broad and rests too carefully against Philipp’s jaw, and as Philipp stills he can feel Kuba hesitate and start to pull away. And he lets him, but for only an instant: only as long as it takes to read the expression on Kuba’s face, before he interrupts.

“When were you going to say something?”

“I’m sorr--” says Kuba, and then, “What?”

“I mean,” says Philipp, and reaches for the words to explain, because he knows he has them. But Kuba’s face is still half-frozen in apology, like he thinks he’s made a terrible mistake, and Philipp can’t stand it: he leans forward instead, and pulls Kuba to him, and kisses him until Kuba makes a rough, helpless sound, and his mouth opens under his.

“That first game,” says Kuba, suddenly, against Philipp’s mouth. “You made this tackle--it was the cleanest I’d ever seen. It’s stupid.” He huffs a laugh, and his stubble is just the right kind of sensitive against Philipp’s cheek. “I thought it would be awkward, I guess, if I kissed you in front of my own priest.”

“You haven’t met Poldi,” mumbles Philipp.

“What?"

“My place,” says Philipp, louder, “right now,” and Kuba presses his forehead to Philipp’s and smiles.

 

\---

 

They make it as far as the stairs up to Philipp’s apartment before he’s tugging impatiently at Kuba’s jacket, and Kuba laughs breathlessly, lets Philipp pull it off him before picking him up and carrying him the rest of the way. Kuba kisses him again at the top of the stairs, while they’re kicking off their cleats, and again in the middle of the living room, and from there it’s almost easy to guide him, slow careful steps all the way, until he’s pressed Philipp against the window, the glass cool against his back.

Kuba’s hands slide up Philipp’s hips, wander under his shirt, shiver across his ribs. His tongue is hot against Philipp’s, and his hands are a sudden bloom of warmth between Philipp’s back and the window, before they drift down to cup his ass. He moves to pull him back toward the sofa, but Philipp puts a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” he says, and Kuba does, nonplussed but obedient. “Here. Up against the window.”

He feels Kuba’s cock twitch half-hard against his leg before he hears his intake of breath, sees Kuba’s gaze slide from him to the darkened street and back again. Philipp meets his eyes challengingly, and something in Kuba’s expression shifts.

“Christ,” he says, hoarsely, and presses his teeth to the line of Philipp’s jaw before stepping back.

“Condoms and lube in the bathroom,” says Philipp, inordinately proud of how his steady his voice is. “Top drawer.”

Kuba nods once, wordlessly, and slips off down the hall. Philipp closes his eyes and tips his head back against the glass, exhaling shakily. He can still smell Kuba’s cologne on his own skin, and an echo of his sweat; the thought of it makes his hips jerk forward, involuntarily, and he bites his lip hard, palming himself through his shorts.

He doesn’t have to wait long; a moment later Kuba is at his side again, nipping sharply at his earlobe. This time his hand is cool and slippery as he pushes down Philipp’s shorts and circles his hole with a broad finger, and Philipp can’t help the moan that escapes from him as he’s entered. Kuba thrusts into him with aching slowness; Philipp can feel the tension in him, coiled tight like a spring, like it’s taking everything he has not to let go, and Philipp wishes he would.

“More,” he grits out, and Kuba shudders against him and adds another finger. Philipp reaches up, dragging his fingers through Kuba’s hair, and pulls him down for another kiss, the press of his tongue mirroring every thrust of Kuba’s fingers.

“Kuba.” He should take it easy, he thinks--it’s been longer than he’s liked--but he’s grown suddenly tired of waiting, and as Kuba’s fingers slip out of him he turns, bracing his forearms against the glass, and says, “Kuba, hurry up and fuck me.”

Kuba groans deep in his throat at that, but he steps back to roll on the condom and Philipp shivers as the cold rolls in around him again. He hears the light crinkle of the wrapper, and then Kuba is pushing into him, his hands hot and messy as they trace the line of Philipp’s spine. Philipp breathes slowly in through his nose, exhales slowly as Kuba bottoms out.

He can feel the light pressure of Kuba’s hair tickling the back of his neck as he lowers his head between Philipp’s shoulderblades. Kuba says something, too low for him to hear. He thinks it might sound like a prayer. Then he begins to move, and there’s no more room for Philipp to think. Kuba fills him utterly, stretches him to his limits; the pleasure almost overwhelms him with each thrust.

“Harder,” he manages, and when Kuba doesn’t respond immediately, arches his back, pushing himself onto Kuba’s cock, meeting every snap of Kuba’s hips with his own. Kuba lets out a low, shattered noise. His hands tighten painfully against Philipp’s hips, and he slams into him so hard the breath is knocked out of him. The next thrust pushes Philipp up against the window; he catches a glimpse of his reflection, flushed and disheveled and blurred by his own breath, and then he gasps with the dizzying cold as his cock slides across the glass, leaving a smear of precome just above the sill.

Kuba doesn’t stop--Philipp doesn’t think he can--but one hand slides over the ridge of Philipp’s hipbone and drops to wrap around his cock, and the sudden warmth is too much: he comes against the window, biting down on his lip so hard it goes numb, and not long after Kuba sighs against him, thrusts one last time, and stills.

For a while they stay pressed against the window, catching their breath, until Philipp’s legs won’t hold him any longer. But Kuba’s hands are there, and as slick as they are, he still manages to slow his descent as they sink to the floor together.

 

\---

 

“Well,” says Thomas. “This is unprecedented.”

“I can’t believe it,” says Philipp.

“What’s there to believe?” says Piszczek. “You know there’s no official team rosters.”

“That’s because we assume teams aren’t going to steal other teams’ wingers!”

Piszczek stares at Philipp, then stares pointedly at Lewy, who’s suddenly very busy examining the horrible flesh-colored protein bar his wife has packed for him.

“Hey, come on,” says Szczesny, shouldering his way between them. “We called your man Javi first, and he said he’d be free to step in for you guys today--”

“I am very happy to help the team where I am needed,” says Javi, in tones of mock seriousness.

Szczesny gives him a thumbs up. “So it’s not a problem, right?”

“It _is_ a problem!” says Philipp. “No offense to you, Javi. But just because Father Miro’s gone off to Rome on--official business, or whatever--”

“He would want it this way,” says Szczesny sagely. “You wouldn’t want us to concede a semifinal just because we didn’t have enough people, right? It wouldn’t be fair.”

“We’re _playing each other!”_

“I don’t know,” says Kuba, and Philipp whirls. “It might be fun to play against you for once.”

He’s slouched against his car, his hands in his pockets, one eyebrow raised. Philipp opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“Fine,” he says. “Okay. But don’t expect to win.”

“You sound awfully certain of yourself,” says Kuba, and before Philipp can respond, he’s jogged past him and onto the pitch, with just a hint of a smile on his face.


End file.
